The gods had given Belkram Hardeth a merry spirit that was apt to rise up and seize hold of his tongue and his wits in times of danger, when other men grew grim and careful. This spirit had taken him across the Realms to the seas off the Sword Coast, where sailors valued such gusto. There he had made his living with his blade but stayed nowhere long, because he spoke plainly when masters gave foolish orders that cost lesser men their lives.
Foolish orders. He remembered stumbling along a wet night street in Athkatla, too much zzar riding heavily and uneasily in his stomach, when a haughty local merchant had sneered at him for being a good-for-nothing hiresword, loyal to no lord or company.
'Whereas you,' Belkram had replied, 'serve only your own purse-far higher and more noble a cause.'
Grins had told him that the noble's bodyguard appreciated his sarcasm, but the white-faced merchant had curtly ordered his men to slay the outlander mercenary. A few anxious moments of slashing steel and swift shuffling in the street followed, and then six bodyguards lay senseless, dead, or dying as Belkram faced the now-terrified merchant alone.
The man took to his heels like a scared rabbit. Belkram had sprinted after him, catching up to say into his ear at full run, 'You see? We hold the same values at heart. Each of us'd rather be a live coward than a dead hero!'
The merchant had fainted dead away, so a thoughtful Belkram had tossed him in a water butt to revive, and left the city that night.
He still believed that view made a swordsman more useful to the peace of Faerun than any other stance. The mistake too many folk made-even the senior Harpers at Twilight Hall-was thinking him a craven, unprincipled man. Belkram of Everlund would keep after his foes and his goals, trying one way and then another, patient and inexorable as the years passed, tirelessly probing here and then there for a chink in the armor of those who stood against him, ever seeking a way through.
Of course, for such an approach to succeed, one must survive as the years pass. That was the task he was having trouble with. Twice now he'd been dragged back from the great darkness by the spells of priests hired by friends. On the other hand, his merry loyalty had won him those friends.
'What's the matter?' he asked the raging mage in innocent tones, holding the lid of the pot in his hands. 'Don't you like helms? Warriors at least have sense enough to wear them when they go into battle.'
'No, I don't like helms,' Elminster said sourly. 'And wearing pots over my head pleases my fashion sense even less.'
That was too much for Sharantyr and Itharr. Their full-throated laughter as they rolled apart brought them the Old Mage's undivided attention. 'And just what, pray to all the gods, do ye both find so amusing?'
'The sight of a… potty old mage,' Itharr choked out, through fresh howls of mirth.
Elminster's mouth crooked. 'The lot of ye have been on the road for far too long. The gods have been touching wits around here.'
'Is that a bad thing?' Belkram asked. 'New plans and items must come from somewhere.'
'Aye, and most of 'em could go back there with much profit,' Elminster grunted. 'Back to the bottoms of the tankards that spawned 'em.'
'Do you really believe that, Sy-Old Mage?' Sharantyr asked, her laughter subsiding.
Elminster gave her a warning look for the slip and said, 'Nay, lass. But all of ye-the Realms entire, it seems- expect me to play the role of a gruff old wizard who yearns for shining younger times. It's a cloak that suits me, I'll admit. Wearing it oft gets me my own way in things, y'see.'
'Don't you get tired of always playing the pettish, sour old wit?' Itharr asked, serious in his turn.
'To look behind such masks,' Belkram said quietly, 'is-too often-to destroy the wearer.'
' 'Destroy,' now that's a nice word!' a new voice rang out from above.
Four heads jerked up. A glowing figure was standing on air above the stone needle of one of the ruined towers, hands raised and moving. It was a man none of them had seen before… and a second man stood in emptiness beside him. As they watched, a third and fourth appeared, without herald's trumpet or flashing disturbance-just the starry sky one moment and a man standing in it the next.
Elminster's lips were moving. As the first bright and deadly bolt of magic flashed down into the ruins, it was met by a crawling net of light that rent it, sending angry lightnings sizzling and smoking in all directions… except down onto the scrambling companions below.
'Find cover!' the Old Mage roared, and took out his pipe. An instant later, the pipe flashed and he vanished.
The four lightning bolts that sought his life arrived too late, slashing through the darkening spell net in a shower of sparks to meet in a crash that sent riven stones spinning in all directions and toppled a section of wall. The structure leaned southward with slow grace, then fell apart in the air, spilling loose blocks of stone over a wide area of brambles and saplings.
Sharantyr ducked behind what was left of the tower, a frantic glance telling her there were now nine or more glowing mages aloft. A moment later she saw a purple oval of moaning light diving down into the ruin. As she watched, fumbling for the magic ring on its chain under her gorget, the spell-thing swooped through a gap in the walls and came around the corner, seeking her.
Shar cursed and sprinted back around the tower, catching one hand on the stones of the wall to wheel tightly and run close along the inside of the standing stonework. Then she put her head down and ran faster than she'd ever run before.
As the purple radiance howled after her, pulsing and gaining swiftly, the lady ranger caught at another stony edge and flung herself sideways through what had once been a window. Shar landed rolling as another lightning bolt crashed down nearby, its flash showing her Itharr's burly form in similar frantic flight. She sprang up to dodge behind a pile of rubble.
The radiance, whatever it was, tried to dart through the window, but didn't fit. The blast that followed took down most of that wall, showering the top of her rubble pile with stony fragments. Clutching her healing ring, Shar ran for the dark trees nearby as mocking laughter rang out overhead.
Balls of fire tore down into the forest to her right. Trees crashed to the ground, ablaze from top to bottom, and she heard a roar of pain. Belkram! She veered toward the blaze as fresh fire blossomed in the ruins behind her.
Then she heard screams from above, and something wet fell on her cheek. She wiped it away without slowing. Stickiness… blood! Reaching the trees, she saw another purple thing dodging among them, seeking Belkram. She flung herself flat on her back just in time.
This time, the spell blast showered her with jagged scraps of wood and hurled blazing cinders aloft. Watching them, she saw the glowing figures jerking and convulsing in a sky full of whirling blades that flashed and spun in the moonlight.
Some sort of blade barrier spell. It must be the work of Elminster!
Shar finally got her ring onto her finger and found her feet again. She was flung to her knees almost immediately as two explosions rocked some distant trees and a corner of the ruins quite close by. Itharr appeared, diving headlong through a window with his leathers ablaze, to roll and curse on the ground nearby. Staggering to her feet, Shar ran toward him as the ground rocked again, someone snarled, 'Die!' high overhead, and a sudden amber light announced the fruition of another spell. Still at a dead run, Shar glanced up.
From out of that brilliant light swooped two gargoyles. Glistening, orange, and translucent, they seemed made of glass rather than stone-and were coming for her and Itharr fast, sharp talons extended.
Shar cursed, ran into Itharr-sending him sprawling-and then ran after him and rolled him hurriedly into the trees to give him some cover. Then she ducked aside with a shriek as one ice-cold talon laid open her leathers and shoulder together. As she sprinted away along the edge of the forest, Sharantyr heard the wind-whistle of the gargoyle wheeling in the air and then beating its wings, closing in on her.
At what she judged to be the last possible moment, she swerved into the trees and dropped.
A splintering crash told her the gargoyle had tried to follow her, and found a tree instead. She got up hurriedly and ran back the way she'd come, as a lightning bolt cracked across the ruins and lit up the night.
The brilliant light showed her the fallen, twisted form of one glowing… man? It seemed to have too many legs and something that might have been a wing. A Malaugrym? Strolling past it, out into the open heart of the ruins, was an unconcerned-looking Elminster, unlit pipe in his mouth and his hands empty.
